


Tattoo Your Love on My Heart

by poisontaster



Series: Winsister [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Siblings, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 15:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: Adding Sam back to the mix has unbalanced them, though, and everything since has been Addie throwing her weight from one end to the other, trying to find her equilibrium again, trying to find it for all of them.





	Tattoo Your Love on My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> A few days after The World Before Columbus.

She’s not sleeping. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. Addie sighs and slithers out from Dean’s side. In the other bed, Sam’s snoring, loudly enough it could’ve kept her awake...except that she’s been listening to Sam saw logs for nearly her whole life. 

_(He’s back now, he’s not leaving; she can ignore the years he was gone.)_

It’s not the noise. 

She’s too old and big to hide in the closet, the way they used to; past a certain age, the only privacy in a motel room is in the bathroom. Addie closes the door slowly, soundlessly and lets the pins roll silently into the plate before she turns on the light. 

This bathroom is a dingy and ugly puke green, decidedly unimproved by the equally dingy light. Addie isn’t at all improved by it, either. 

_I look like shit,_ she thinks, more bluntly, because that’s who she has to be, who she’s always had to be, Addie-at-the-end. The worst of the venom washed out of her blood days ago, but she isn’t quite herself yet, sore and raw, inside and inside deeper, bruised and battered. 

Funny how fucking one brother--fucking Dean--can feel so easy and right, like something she’d been waiting all her life to get to, and fucking the other…

Addie shakes her head, not wanting to think about it. What happened with her and Sam is different, a mutual rape that neither one of them wants to dwell on. So she needs to quit dwelling on it. 

Addie smears her fingers over the mirror’s glass, half-wishing she could smear her reflection away with it. 

Instead, she crouches down, ignoring the ache and twinge of her flexors as she does it, and digs in the duffle of their combined toiletries for the clippers and trimmer. 

Dad had cut their hair when they were little, all three of them, getting shaved one after the other in a line, like they were joining the Army. It never bothered her, she never wanted anything different, even with as much mockery as she got from the girls at school. She’s a Winchester, and this is how they do. 

Though Sam grew his hair out the moment he could, long and absurd, Addie never did. She runs her fingers through it now, scissoring at it to judge the length. Over and behind her ears, it’s started to get that weird feathery look she hates so much, when the hair starts to go in a billion different directions. 

There’d been a couple years where, if she still preferred it short, she’d tried dying it. Dark, like the rest of the family, though it was something she’d only realized in retrospect. A way to not be the redheaded cuckoo child in the middle of a trio of brunets. But even if you stole the dye, it cost something in time and effort, the maintenance, and she’s never wanted to spend that much time worrying about her hair. 

It had never looked right, either, a single-toned brown that announced to everyone that she colored her hair like a vain little peacock. She’d shaved herself nearly bald then, trying to get rid of all the dye all at once, and neither Dean nor Dad ever said a word about it, one way or the other. 

She’s never asked, but now, plugging in the clippers and the trimmer and hoping she doesn’t blow the room’s power, she wonders what Dean had thought about it, if he’d thought anything about it at all. She wonders what Dean thinks about her hair now, if he ever wants her to grow it out long and thick and pretty like the girls he used to fuck, before he was fucking her. 

Not that she will. 

One of the comforts of banging her brother is how little she’s had to think about the whole thing. Adding Sam back to the mix has unbalanced them, though, and everything since has been Addie throwing her weight from one end to the other, trying to find her equilibrium again, trying to find it for all of them. 

Washing her hair will be too loud; instead, she turns on a trickle in the sink and wets her fingers, raking them through to dampen it all up. When she lifts her head again, though, Sam looms behind her, taking up the rest of the mirror. 

Addie manages to keep her lips closed around her gasp, but she flinches--hard--as much because of the memory of the two of them on venom--he’d first fucked her in the bathroom there--as being just plain startled. “ _Fuck_ , Sam!” she hisses, though not loud enough to wake Dean, too. 

“Sorry.” He scratches at a cluster of mosquito bites on his arm. He looks fully awake, but he still sounds drawling and thick. “I saw the light.” He pauses and she _hates it_ , how careful he is with his words, with her. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” It’s reflex to say the words, even more reflexive, to be annoyed with him for asking. “I couldn’t sleep.” She turns off the faucet, avoiding his eyes, and picks up the clippers. 

“Let me,” Sam offers, reaching for the razor, though he stops short of taking--trying to take--it away from her. 

“I can do it.”

Sam sighs. “I know you can. Let me do it, anyway.” He holds out his hand. 

She’s never let anyone but Dad cut her hair; the entire idea seems strange and potentially dangerous. But it feels chickenshit to back down from the challenge. Mouth twisting, she slapped it down on his palm. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Turn around,” he says, grabbing her shoulder at the same time and guiding her around. Addie digs her heels in just long enough to show Sam she can, then goes with it, letting him turn her to face the sink again. 

This is how he took her that first time, from behind. She doesn’t let herself remember how it felt--the sex--but again, his size, his presence, whispers goosebumps down her skin. She still has bruises across her pelvis and hips from the slam of their bodies into the sink counter. 

“Sam…” Her voice shakes. She hates that her voice shakes. 

The corner of Sam’s mouth turns up, it’s more sad than a smile. But when he leans down to her ear, what he says is: 

“Man up, Addie.”

It’s, for once, the right thing to say. Outrage makes her straighten and she elbows back at him...but not as hard as she could have. 

Sam takes the hit with a muffled _oof_ , then clicks on the clippers. “Quit squirming, Squirt, and hold still. Or I’ll take off _all_ your hair.”

He’s a Winchester; those kind of threats are really just promises. Addie stills, facing front again as Sam angles her head for the blades. She’s smiling, though, looking at Sam’s face in this moment of his inattention. His touch is light, but not _careful_ and she watches him as he scoops the blades through her hair, fine itchy filaments falling on her bare shoulders and tank top. 

In their last moments at the motel, the venom mostly purged from their system, Sam had taken her hand. They’d walked out to the Impala like that, until the logistics of it all had broken them apart. 

She hadn’t been really sure what it meant, the gesture. Still isn’t sure, truth be told, but like this impromptu haircut, it has to mean something that Sam is making them. 

“Fuck, did I miss a memo?” Dean’s voice, even more fuzzy with sleep than Sam’s had been, interrupts Addie’s train of thought. In the mirror, he looks soft and crumpled, eyes half shut as he scrapes the crud away. 

Both of them froze at the sound of him like they’d been caught at something, though it isn’t anything, really, at all. 

Dean doesn’t stay in the doorway, though, zombie-shuffling over to the head and whipping it out. 

Addie feels herself soften again, and Sam makes a disgusted noise, turning his head away to the opposite wall. “Jesus, Dean.”

Above the patter of his stream arcing into the bowl, Dean shrugs and says, “Don’t gotta get all pissy about it, Sammy.” Dean’s grin is bright, almost blinding, the one that stabs her deep in her heart, even before. “Get it?” he says, rolling his head back on his neck to nod at them both and make _sure_ she and Sam get it, “Pissy?” Dean cracks up.

“Oh, my God, Dean,” Addie says, “urine no good at telling jokes.”

Dean cackles harder; Sammy gives them the double whammy bitchface of _deep_ eye roll and head shake, tilting her head again to go back in with the clippers. Her shoulders itch like a motherfucker, her bruises hurt and she’s going to regret not sleeping when it’s time for them to get back on the road...but for right now, Addie can breathe and everything’s all right.


End file.
